50 Impressions in Time
by xxfatal
Summary: Time records all, even happenstances that have been erased, written over, or merely forgotten. 50 dips in Time that may or may not have ever happened. Chiaki x Makoto. 50scenes challenge from LJ.
1. Take Ten

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Girl Who Leapt Through Time._

**50 Impressions in Time**

00:10:00

**Take Ten**

**

* * *

**

_**41; kiss:**_

He sees her marching up to him, face set with determination–she's going to kiss me, he half-fantasizes–but when she crumbles the time-charging device in his open palm, he knows its over.

_**42; no return:**_

She yelps as she goes barreling into his bed–his prone form–"What the hell?" he stammers–and for one second she feels him holding her and it's perfect, terrifyingly perfect–before she screams bloody mur_der_, sprints down his stairs, leaps–and is gone.

_**43; masked:**_

"You asked Hayakawa out?" Kousuke inquires, the disapproval all but apparent in his voice.

"Yeah," says Chiaki breezily. Challenge creeps into his voice. "What of it?"

"What about Makoto?"

"What about her?"

"She feels left out."

Chiaki half-panics at the thought, but his pride, his hurt, masks it. "Yeah? She wasn't the only one."

_**31; response:**_

"_If I got a girlfriend, too, then you would be alone," Kousuke replied matter-of-factly._

Makoto collapsed the pillow against her face. What, was she incapable of getting a boyfriend? Was that his assumption? She screamed mutely into the pillow. She could have Chiaki if she wanted–she crushed the thought and flipped over.

_**1; needles:**_

The baseball hits her square in the jaw. A hiss of pain grits through clenched teeth. Her eyes water. But it's not the impact that causes her to.

"You're going out with Hayakawa?" Kousuke questions neutrally, except for the slight downturn of his brow. There's more aggression in his voice than Makoto really ever remembers.

"Yeah." Chiaki laughs. "She just gets me, you know."

Makoto feels needles in her eyes, but she doesn't oblige. She pulls back and launches the baseball as far as she can. He swears and canters after it. Makoto watches him for a moment, before an unwelcome frown spills past her lips. Her eyes drop to the ground, and she shakes off the mitt. Kousuke catches it in her wimpy, half-hearted toss. "Kousuke, I'm bushed. I'm going home."

Kousuke is unsurprised. "Want me to walk you home?"

She shakes her head, scuffing up dirt as she retreats off the field. She finds her bag lying next to Chiaki's, and her leg abruptly burns to give his duffel a good kick. She refrains, bites her lip. She turns away and heads down the road.

"Hey, Makoto! Where are you going?" hollers Chiaki from behind.

It isn't until then that she lets the angry welts carve down her cheeks.

_**25; view:**_

She's twenty-one, kissing her boyfriend fully on the mouth, when she remembers olive eyes and bright, tangled locks. She pulls back abruptly.

"What's wrong, Mako?"

"Let's watch the sunset," she proposes.

"Alright," he agrees, threading their fingers together. (She lets him.)

They look out across the river. The orange hues twinkle across the water, reaching and retreating at her feet. She forgets the kiss lingering on her lips, and only remembers crying until the sun has gone.

_**36; fever: **_

"Damn it, Chiaki! Look at you!" cries Makoto wearily.

He's lying back on his bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin, and a warm ice pack across his forehead. "I didn't know I was getting sick," he musters as an excuse. "Relax, I'll be fine."

She pulls out a plastic bag he didn't know she brought, yanking a suspicious-looking capsule from its many contents. She unscrews the cap, and two tiny pills tumble into her open palm. Makoto grimaces at him. "What are you doing with so many blankets on?" Without waiting for a response, she wrenches the sheets off his overheating body.

His toes curl from the sudden chill. "What are you doing?" he deplores her. "It's freezing!"

"It's 35C outside."

He glances at the tablets in her hand, and shuts his eyes in fatigue. "I'm not taking that."

"It's medicine, Chiaki. Not poison."

"I don't need it. I'll be fine," he insists, and it begins to sound like he's pouting.

"Chiaki, if you don't take it voluntarily, I'll have Kousuke come over and ram it down your throat," she replies determinedly.

He chuckles. "I'll like to see him try. I can take him!" Chiaki grabs the uncomfortably warm ice pack from his forehead and chucks it on his desk.

"Are you crazy?" spouts Makoto, flabbergasted. She glares at him, eyes narrowed in that trademark expression. He gazes back, completely content in just observing her displeased countenance.

After a moment, Makoto breaks eye contact, takes the ice pack, and turns on her heel to head down the stairs. Chiaki smirks at her retreating back. He allows his eyes to close, and as they slide shut, he feels them burn.

Seconds later, he hears her footsteps pounding against his staircase. It sounds as if she's taking them two–or, hell, three–at a time. His eyes flare open and he tries to prop himself on his elbows, when he registers, with alarm, the sight of her sprinting through the doorway–directly at him. He feels the air leave his lungs at all once and his head slams back into the pillow, jarring and disorienting him for a moment. "What–" he starts, when he feels Makoto's cool fingers forcefully squish his cheeks, and two unidentified pellets going down his esophagus.

A dry cough hits Makoto right in the kisser. She makes a face, keeping an eye open to make certain he's swallowed them.

"See?" he hears as soon as he is able to ascertain what is going on. "That wasn't so bad." He opens his eyes to the realization that she is sitting on top of him. He barely notices the perspiration glistening on her forehead, barely catches the shortness of her breath. Chiaki stares, dumbfounded, into her triumphant hazel eyes.

He is suddenly overcome by the desire to see her naked or bathing.

He forcefully closes his eyes, trying to commit this remarkable event to memory. He wants to remember the sensation of her hands splayed against his chest, her thighs on his waist, the cool feel of her skin on every burning point of contact.

"Chiaki?" Makoto reacts worriedly. "You're turning really red. Are you okay?"

He can barely nod.

"Crap! You're not allergic to aspirin, are you?" she exclaims, panicked. She hastily climbs off him, reaching for the capsule that's sitting on the floor beside his bed.

It's all he can do not to take her hand and keep her there.

_**2; cold: **_

"It's just a cold," Makoto insists. Her nose drips and she sniffs viciously to keep it from leaking.

Kousuke hands her the bottle of liquid cold medication. She grimaces in distaste, but takes the container. "You stay home and rest. Chiaki and I will take notes, so don't worry about needing to get to school too soon."

"Chiaki's not going to take notes," Makoto deadpans.

"I will take notes," corrects Kousuke.

Makoto nods industriously and allows herself to sit back against the pillows. "You know this is Chiaki's fault, right?" she questions archly after a brief beat of silence.

Kousuke decides against replying.

"His cough hit me right in the face, you know," she continues. "You best be careful unless you want Chiaki spittle _infecting you_," she finishes dramatically.

Kousuke's mouth twitches in amusement. "Advice taken. I'll come back tomorrow to check on you." Unexpectedly, he pulls her into a brief one-armed hug. Makoto is taken completely by surprise.

She sneezes into his shoulder before she can help herself.

_**9; guarded:**_

Kousuke is rendered momentarily speechless by Chiaki's entrance into the classroom–early. When he regains control of his vocal cords, he knits his brow in trepidation. "What are you doing here?"

Chiaki responds with a chortle. "I'm a student here; what are you doing here?" he quips capriciously.

Kousuke shuts the notebook he's been looking over, and pulls off his glasses. "You never come to class early," he contests.

Chiaki slaps him on the back, dropping his bag with the other shoulder. "That's not true!" Before Kousuke can present his infallibly tardy companion with the slew of evidence stating otherwise, Chiaki sends a cheerful grin over his head, in the direction of Makoto's desk. "Morning, Hayakawa!"

She returns a smile. "Morning!"

Kousuke watches with disquiet as Chiaki abandons his usual seat and temporarily claims the empty desk behind Hayakawa's. "How'd you like the game, last night?" he engages conversationally.

"It was fun," she meekly replies, her fingers drumming apprehensively on her knees.

"Yeah, it was, huh? The last inning was pretty intense! Who were you rooting for?"

Hayakawa's eyes peer up, as if the answer is written on the ceiling.

Kousuke frowns out the window, looking for a sign of Makoto biking up to school, looking as cheerfully flustered as usual. She's nowhere to be seen.

The bell sounds; feet scramble and chairs scrape.

"Mamiya, since you're miraculously early today, I'll leave you the honor of passing out these pop quizes!" booms their instructor. Groans echo through the room. Kousuke extricates a writing utensil from his backpack and returns his glasses to resting position on the bridge of his nose. As he scrawls his name in the top corner, he can't help but cast a worried look over at the empty seat next to him.

As he's about to finish answering the second question, the door slides open. His attention refocuses immediately.

"Sorry I'm late," announces Makoto, bowing.

"Pop quiz, Konno!" bellows their ever-merciful teacher.

Makoto plops into her desk, pulls out a writing implement, and begins.

_000000_

"Someone was extra late to class today," insinuates Kousuke playfully as he reaches into his backpack for his packed lunch.

Makoto's mouth drops to the side, eyes staring forward, as if she's deciding whether or not to explain herself. "I don't know," she reveals. "I didn't sleep all that well last night."

For how much effort she's putting into squashing her apparent unhappiness, she's extremely forthcoming, Kousuke thinks. "Let me guess," he jokes, "you had a nightmare you came to school unprepared for a quiz?"

The side of Makoto's mouth turns up, and Kousuke appreciates that his efforts to cheer her up are not futile. "Well, yeah, I dreamed that," she nods, "I came to school unprepared." Her sentences trails off unexpectedly. She smothers her crestfallen tone. "At least I didn't come to school naked. You're always telling me those nightmares are the worst."

Kousuke plays along. "They are! Think about it; you don't have any clothes on, and you have to go asking around _naked_ for clothes. It's humiliating."

Makoto flashes him a grin, and he's taken aback by how much he's missed it. "I would have just gone home! Why would you even go to school butt-naked? You're crazy, Kousuke!" she patronizes him affectionately. She rummages in her duffel for her sandwich and indicates to the door. "Let's eat outside."

_000000_

Makoto slurps her juice box dry with a gusto. "I'm going to throw away my trash, okay? Be back in a second," she tells him, jumping to her feet and ambling off toward the corner of the school

A minute later, she returns, a faraway look of dismay planted on the set of her eyes and lips.

"Makoto?" he asks.

She takes a carrot from him and nibbles on it, watching the clouds crawl across the sky. "It's nothing," she tries to reassure him. She doesn't tell him she saw Chiaki having lunch with Yuri. And she certainly doesn't tell him that she saw them kiss.

_000000_

"Makootooo!" Within a second of hearing her name, she finds her neck locked in the familiar crook of Kousuke's elbow.

"Ow! Let gooo!" she wails through the choke-hold, feet scrambling beneath her to maintain Kousuke's hurried pace. Her arms flail uselessly outward, and she ends up half-laughing, half-crying from lack of air as he drags her across the field to the baseball diamond.

She says she isn't lonely, but he knows when either of his best friends lies.

_**16; nocturnal:**_

She _despises_ the idea of toying with people's feelings, so when she tells Kousuke in a drunken stupor that she loves him, she hopes it's true.

* * *

**A/N:** First ten of fifty from the **50scenes challenge** over on LJ. A new project I'm curious to work on. Comments and critiques welcomed. Thank you for reading.


	2. Take Twenty

00:20:00

**Take Twenty**

* * *

_**32; withdraw:**_

"It's been a lot of fun." It sounds bland, awfully bland, to the both of them. "I'll miss you guys." He's splayed out on the grassy knoll, his skin drinking sunshine.

She's curled in, arms wrapped protectively around her shins; she glares at the sun, daring it to disappear. "That's not how you put it last time," Makoto hears herself saying. She's pouting, but she simply can't refrain.

He reacts with bewilderment. "What? How did I put it last time?" He eyes her imploringly; intrigued by the self she's erased so—_so stupidly—_many times over.

She bites her lip until she can feel blood roiling restlessly beneath her skin, threatening to burst, before she lets go, and she merely announces: "I'm not telling."

His eyebrows rise in persistent curiosity, and she finds him leaning a hand's width from where she's sitting. "Hey, you can't just leave it like that!" he exclaims, sounding like the boy she remembers. "Now you _have_ to tell me!"

She ponders it for a heartbeat. She knows it'll hurt so much more—and she _can't make him stay_—if she says it. "I'm not telling you," she says heartlessly.

He crumples, just a little, and she wonders if he already knew.

_**44; homeland:**_

He is lying in bed, in his own century, rousing himself from a particularly nostalgic dream ripe with bicycles and laughter. And then the image hits him like a train crashing through twisted metal.

"_Do you want to go out with me sometime, Hayakawa?"_

"_Yes!" Her excitement is reassuring. "Yes, I would love to!"_

He sits up, racking his brain for the fading sliver of an erased memory, a memory diluted by Time itself. He grimaces. It couldn't be. When and _why_ in the world would he ever ask Hayakawa out? He had been infatuated with Makoto in that era. Utterly, hopelessly infatuated. What kind of idiot asked out his crush's best friend?

"_Wow, you made this for me?"_

"_Yeah." Hesitation. "I thought we could eat lunch together."_

"_Don't you usually eat with Makoto during lunch?"_

"_Yes, but, I thought since we were…"_

Together. He feels his spine go rigid. He was _with_ Hayakawa. It wasn't just some mental mix-up of Makoto and Hayakawa. He actually, in all his stupidity, began a relationship with the quiet girl from his homeroom class. He clambers out of bed, pulling his anachronistic duffel bag from beneath the safety of his bed. He maintains it as best as he can; everything in it is pristine condition, right where he placed it, hundreds of years ago.

He unzips it, pulling out a photo frame with a picture of the three of them. He presses a thumb on the glass, over Makoto's grinning face. Had he ignored her? Did she see him with her best friend? Did he hurt her?

_Hayakawa hums nervously as Chiaki lowers his face next to hers. He's nervous as hell, kissing a girl. He presses his lips to hers. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Makoto just turning the corner into the emptied classroom. She has that dumbfounded look on her face. Then she runs._

He grips the frame, feeling helpless and dense.

"Shit," he murmurs. "Shit, I'm sorry, Makoto."

_**8; avarice:**_

"Let's go, Makoto!"

"GOOOO!" Overzealous and uncontained encouragement rattles through the soundproofed room. "MA-KO-TOOO!"

She grins, and she's feeling the alcohol enough to realize her facial expression is a _trite_ too silly, but she's not feeling it nearly enough to really care. Majo, a disappointing picture of sobriety, gently places a hand on her niece's shoulder. And it's all the approval she needs before she waggles her fingers suggestively at Hiro, the receptionist. Hiro is rather red in the face, and Makoto takes a moment to pride in her body's lack of obnoxious facial flushing.

"Catch!" But Makoto doesn't even need it to be said. It's muscle memory that allows her to catch; her fingers deftly capture the microphone. A chorus of unintelligible cheering distracts her from the sudden impulse to play baseball instead. Her upper lashes fall to meet the lower ones, and she brings the gift to her lips.

The first song is this contemporary poppy number, and although Makoto's labored breathing is a testament to her inability to catch up to the hurried cadence of the song, she laughs along for most of it.

The second song is a song she's heard once from overseas, so she yaps into the microphone for the curator to duet with her because he speaks splendid English.

She takes another deceptively brief drink of her martini before she's up for the third song, which, as with the previous two, has been chosen for her. She hums along at first, eyes shut, certain she can reproduce the song without reading lyrics because she's solo-karaoked _how many_ times now, and _how good_ was she?

So she shocks herself when her lips start easily, as if she's dreamt this song so many times that the habitual curling of the tongue is nothing. _"And time waits for no one; and it won't wait for me—" _The party joins in the chorus, barking the words at discordant octaves.

Makoto's arm hangs limply at her side, and she doesn't know why, but she's suddenly extremely upset. Her face scrunches, mouth twisted in an ugly expression. _Why are we singing this? _Her patience for this absurdity leaves her in that instant, and she tosses the microphone into the assistant manager's ready hands; sits testily back in her seat.

Majo regards her with concern. "Is something the matter, Makoto?" Despite the madness going on around them, her aunt sounds completely calm and impervious.

"Nothing's the matter," Makoto replies forthwith. Majo eyes her niece's sixth undiluted martini with distress, and shakes her head, no, when the waiter returns to ask about beverages.

"Wait!" protests Makoto, anyway, as the waiter places the empty glasses on his tray and takes his leave. Makoto has a feeling she's begun to look distinctly ill now, and, in a startling moment of lucidity, realizes she doesn't doubt how _awful_ she must look when she has to use her aunt for physical support because the damn room decided to go spinning on her _out of nowhere._

"Makoto, I think we should get you home," Majo recommends benignly.

"_Drink in your summerrr!" _they screech urgently, and it makes her ears ring.

It's impossible, and hopeless, and stupid, but she wishes she were seventeen again—sober, and not karaoking with all these people; she just wants—wants—

Makoto's weeping—sobbing desperately—into her aunt's gorgeous new blouse. She can't even muster the willpower to her keep her snot from dribbling out of her stupid nose.

"Oh, Makoto." Her ever-dutiful aunt brushes tears dangling from her eyelashes. "It's alright if you want to cry."

_It's not,_ she thinks stubbornly. _It's not._ The hot, uncomfortable sensation in her eyes and on her cheeks doesn't disappear. She reaches into her skirt pocket and clenches her cellphone in hand. She wants to hear his voice. _Chiaki…no, no, Kousuke; Kousuke's the one I have to call._ The phone drops clumsily out of her uncoordinated digits. A stressed hiccup bubbles from her fuzzy-feeling mouth.

_I'm drunk right now,_ she discovers. Makoto staggers to her feet. _I need to go home._ One heeled shoe finds purchase against the black and white tiles, but her other leg decides to give out on her, and she loses her balance utterly. The floor and ceiling twirl up to meet her very quickly.

"Makoto!" exclaims her aunt.

"_Won't wait for me; no, no, no, not for—_Makoto!_"_

Bright, carrot hair; green, very green eyes; an affectionate chuckle; _I miss you,_ she remembers, and her heart breaks. Before she blacks out, she begs. _Chiaki, come find me._

_**3; embryo: **_

It's not even an idea at first. Just a shade of the faintest inkling. But, like all desires, it grows into a thought.

He watches her sit on the subway seat, furiously scanning pages of their assigned reading. The sun peeks out from the horizon, casting a glow on her high cheekbones. The contents of his head go completely fuzzy.

And the thought is spawned. Makoto is beautiful.

_**29; overdrive:**_

She fiddles uneasily with the mechanical pencil, balanced gravely between her slender fingers. A frown of increasing intensity begins to melt her visage. The room is unbearably full of silence. A page turns.

"Miyuki," blurts Makoto.

_Right on cue_, thinks Miyuki.

"What's another word for 'unconscious'? I've used it four times already!" she sighs, exasperated with her lack of articulation at such a critical hour.

"Try 'unaware,'" offers Miyuki helpfully, turning to the next page in her novel. "Perhaps, 'latent'?"

It isn't the word Makoto's been searching for, but she scrawls it down, anyway. Better to get a passing score than to fail the last composition of the school year.

"Are you almost done?" queries Miyuki, smiling.

"Well, this is probably one of the worst things I've ever written," she hedges, "but, yeah, I'm nearly through. Shouldn't you be in bed by now? It's almost three."

Miyuki props the book upright on her lap. "I only have five pages left, so I want to finish."

Makoto's reply is interrupted by the noisy vibrating of her cellphone against her desktop. Her brow dips in consternation. _Who the hell calls at three in the morning?_ she gripes. She's about to give whoever is on the other end of the phone a piece of her mind for breaking her incredibly hard-earned concentration—when she registers the name on the caller ID.

_Mamiya Chiaki_

Her eyes dilate and her lips tremble; she's shaking, or it may just be her uncooperatively unstable hand.

"Makoto?" susurrates her sister, concern slowly inking her voice.

She doesn't know how, but she finds the phone flipped open and pressed against her ear before she even remembers sending signals to her brain to do just that. "H-hello?" wisps weakly into the device, and she can hardly believe that this brittle warble is hers. There's this terrible static that renders the other end completely indistinct. But she hears it.

"Makoto!" Those three syllables sound so—desperate?—delighted?

Her lips part. "Chiaki?"

The line cuts out.

Her jaw tenses rigid, and her hazel eyes stare straight ahead. Her vision, she's shocked to find, goes a little hazy.

"Makoto?" bleats Miyuki, jumping out of her bed and going to her sister's side. "Are you okay?" Miyuki gently pries the slim apparatus from her limp digits and holds her teetering sibling firmly against the line of support she creates. "Who was it?" Something strikes the flat of Miyuki's hand. She's rendered speechless by the iridescent saltwater drop she sees there.

"It was Chiaki."

Miyuki shakes her head. "Didn't you say they didn't have phones where he went?"

_**17; decadence:**_

Was he even allowed to ask her something like this? He was probably breaking about five million rules. Well, there was really only one that came to mind. The cardinal rule: _Do not attach yourself to a time where you do not belong._

He swore colorfully. But he only had so much time to gamble with. He wanted the most out of it, selfish as it was.

He rolled onto his side, staring out into his empty room from his prone position on the bed. The words formed on his lips, and he whispered it with nervous embarrassment.

"Makoto, will you go out with me?" He gulped down the knot in his throat, and abruptly smashed a pillow into his rapidly reddening face. _This is so mortifying._

After taking a moment to collect himself, he pinched in his cheeks, squeezing his eyes shut in a vain attempt to imagine how she would respond to such a request. Would she smile and say yes? Was that even possible? Laugh right in his face? He blanched at the thought. Grab him by collar, sending them both suddenly off his bike, crashing to the ground, running her hands up and down his shirt—wow, this imagining-thing was not helping. At all.

He scooped the signed baseball off his floor and tossed it half-heartedly at the wall—_thunk!—_and it bounced back into his outstretched hand. He gave the baseball a squeeze. Tomorrow, he would ask her. He'd get a straight answer from her, even if it caused him to die of humiliation.

She was worth it, he decided.

_**33; note:**_

Yuri watches him intently as he takes his seat by the window after giving the class a brief, eccentric introduction_—"Mamiya Chiaki; transfer student. I like math. I also like takoyaki."_

Her interest is piqued immediately; she also has a penchant for math, and takoyaki is _her_ favorite. She flushes a little, flipping pages in her notebook out of distraction. _He certainly fills out his uniform quite nicely_, she catches herself thinking guiltily. He doesn't seem to say much, nor does he appear to be very friendly, which is quite unfortunate, because she could be a little shy herself.

The class instructor nearly finishes reciting names off the attendance sheet when the door jostles open and in tumbles her one of her closest friends, late as usual.

"Sorry, sorry!" she pipes cheerfully, waving her hand apologetically, accompanied by a hasty and messy bow. "I didn't miss anything, did I?" She laughs off the expertly-issued (but facetious) glare aimed her way and hops on over to her desk.

"Konno!" blasts their gruff sensei. "Meet your newest classmate: Mamiya Chiaki." He gestures to her left; the transfer blinks once, before directing Makoto with a polite nod.

"Welcome to the class!" she chirps happily before seating herself and giving their teacher her rapt attention.

"Konno, since you're late, _again_, I'll be putting you in charge of clean-up duty this afternoon, with our new student, Mamiya, here. Show him how it's done."

Makoto produces a decidedly less merry expression. "Yes, sensei," she acquiesces, despite her facial protest.

Yuri wilts imperceptibly. _It was my turn for clean-up today._ She glances quickly at the owner of the shock of orange hair. _I could have gotten to know him a little better. What terrible luck._

The lecture commences shortly, and Yuri abandons her wishful thinking in favor of steadfast note-taking. When the class is directed to group exercise, Yuri takes the opportunity to question Makoto on her unusually perky mood.

"Oh, nothing much," she spouts, although it clearly means _something_. "Last night, my favorite baseball team scored big time! Right, Kousuke?" She beams, shouldering him animatedly.

"That must have been exciting to watch," supplies Yuri with a smile.

"It was! I thought it was almost over when—oh, sorry, did you get to see it last night?"

Yuri shakes her head, no. "I'm not a big fan of baseball. It sounds a lot more fun when you tell it to me like this, though."

Makoto grins, and pats her friend on the shoulder earnestly. "That's too bad, Yuri! Going to a game is amazing! Kousuke and I—we'll take you sometime!"

Yuri nods serenely. "Sounds like a plan." Her attention diverts just in time to witness Chiaki hastily glance away from their conversation. She's suddenly sorry that she doesn't love baseball as Makoto does.

_**21; subliminal:**_

"Wow," Chiaki manages flatly, "thanks." He pivots the 3-pair bundle of socks around in his hand, sporting a clearly unimpressed expression.

Makoto slaps him on the back cheerfully. "I wasn't sure what to get you, Chiaki," she chirps, "but Miyuki mentioned once that people really do appreciate having socks around Christmas."

Kousuke knits his eyebrows together. "Because it's cold, Makoto, not because it makes a thoughtful gift."

Makoto's pleased smile slips minutely. "Hey, be grateful I got the two of you anything at all!"

"How come Kousuke got a book, but I only got socks?" grouses Chiaki, with a note of bitterness.

Makoto's nostrils flare in indignation. "Because!" she huffs. She doesn't tell him it's because she had been _racking her brain_ trying to think of something half-way decent and meaningful to get him for the occasion and that she put it off—and on one of the many trips she took browsing around, she'd found the special edition novel Kousuke had been meaning to get, and purchased it without realizing that she wouldn't have very much money left over for Chiaki. She doesn't tell either of them any of this, but she _knows _her heart was in the right place. "Wear them well!" she commands, rather than suggests.

"So, what did you end up getting for us, Chiaki?" Kousuke intercedes with a chuckle. "It can't be any worse than Makoto's."

Makoto shoots him a deadly glare.

Chiaki coughs in discomfiture. "Look, I'm really new to this whole gift-giving thing, so forgive me if I don't really do it right." He rubs the back of his neck; a gesture that Makoto has begun to recognize as one of apprehension. "Here." He produces two impeccably-wrapped packages, and she knows instantly that there was no way that he wrapped them himself.

Kousuke rips back the brightly-colored paper, and peering through the tears, he exclaims: "Hey, it's a wallet!" Kousuke socks the Chiaki chummily. "You knew I needed one!" Chiaki just laughs—relieved and proud he got it right—and socks him back.

Makoto carefully undoes the beautiful wrapping paper, worried she might make ugly tears in it if she's not careful. She has a personal disinclination for ruining a nice gift-wrapping job, considering it takes her well over fifteen minutes to do a decent job herself.

She manages to open one end of the covered box, and dips a finger into the tab, pulling it open. She shoves her right hand in, and pulls out something lumpy. It unfurls unassumingly in her clenched fist. "A t-shirt," she states without much enthusiasm.

Chiaki looks worried. "You don't like it?"

"It's not that," Makoto responds, dropping the box and holding out the top in both hands. "What's the '01' for?"

"The number's not important," he hurries to explain. "I just thought it looked pretty cool."

Kousuke raises a skeptical brow at Chiaki. Makoto shoves the shirt into Chiaki's arms. They're both about to protest when they're silenced by the act of Makoto _taking off her shirt_. She catches their bug-eyed looks. "Relax, I have another layer underneath. Sheesh."

Sure enough, a simple black tank-top reveals itself from underneath her green polo. She yanks the "01" t-shirt from Chiaki's limp fingers and pulls it on, holding out her arms to examine its display on her figure. "You know, I think I have some pants that would match this. Thanks, Chiaki. I like it a lot." She grins, then lowers her arms, seemingly intent on showing off the shirt for at least the rest of the day.

"It's nothing," he mutters, embarrassed.

She trots around between the two of them for the remainder of Christmas day. No one bothers to ask about the shirt; it's apparent she's their number one.

_**49; sacrifice:**_

When the fire extinguisher sails headlong in space directly at her, he can't help it. It's as if his body moves of its own accord—it never occurs to him if he does this, _this stupid thing_—that he may not even have a chance to use his last leap, to head back to where he belongs. He just wants to protect her.

He hits the ground hard, and he has to stop and think _why does one side hurt and why_—Makoto's sprawled on top of him, eyes searching for signs of injury. "Chiaki?" she utters desperately. "Chiaki, are you okay?"

He doesn't have time to answer, doesn't have time to remember how tender her touch is; how safe he feels with her right next to him—it's as if he was never in any danger.

There's a commotion going on behind them, where he can't see. All he sees is her; her heartbroken expression when she spies the girl lying on the floor, the girl that should have been her, but isn't.

_**14; passenger:**_

He's brimming with nerves by the end of the day, but he thinks that Makoto seems a little too preoccupied to notice. He watches Makoto watch Kousuke walk off into the distance. She stands there, a perky smile planted on her face. She's in a good mood. That's good, right?

"Where's your bike?" he asks, tries to be unassuming.

"It's out of commission," she supplies breezily.

"Want a ride?" He forces down a thick ball of anxious spit down his esophagus.

"Really?" Her eagerness at his cool proposition increases his confidence by leaps and bounds. "Luckiest day ever!" He smiles.

He thinks it would be a good time to ask.

* * *

**A/N:** Whoops, it's taken me some time to resume writing. Boy, did I miss my Tokikake. I realize that I did put a past tense scene (17) in there, but it sounded off in present. I'm sorry if it threw off the cadence for anyone reading. Comments and critique, please? I treasure them.

Thank you for reading.


	3. Take Thirty

00:30:00

**Take Thirty**

* * *

_**30; writer's choice: **__leader_

"Any volunteers?" boomed their sensei energetically. The entire class groaned their dissent. He pierced his students with a stern gaze. "I said, _any_—"

"Me!" An eager arm shot up. "I'll do it!" Everyone turned to gape at her.

"Konno, excellent!" He surveyed the rest of the faces. "Anyone else?" Eventually, two hands resigned themselves to being raised. He wasn't surprised. "Tsuda, Mamiya, good. You three should be sufficient."

And that was how Chiaki and Kousuke found themselves lugging a Christmas tree into the school gymnasium one chilly winter evening, with Makoto in the front gleefully leading the way.

_**13; friction:**_

Chiaki growled furiously under his breath, spitting a slew of curses in his home language. What kind of trousers were these? How did one put them on? His legs just weren't _made_ that way. He chucked them on the ground, and kicked them into a corner sullenly.

After consulting the manual, he realized he'd been trying to put them on sideways.

_**20; writer's choice:**__ drink_

He thinks he could stay like this forever. The cicadas sing their song in the humid summer afternoon. A compact electric fan sits on the tabletop, sending a cool, refreshing breeze against his face. He leans back on the couch, drinking it in, drinking her in.

She blinks lazily at the book propped upright on her belly, and, yawning, turns a torpid page. She lies on her back, legs tangled and draped across his lap. She sports an orange tank top and a pair of white shorts that show off her wonderfully long and perfect legs. Unaware of the smile working at his lips, he trails a knuckle up the smooth expanse of her shin. She fidgets fretfully, but doesn't ask him to stop.

"Chiaki," she purrs mournfully, peering over the top of her book, "I want water."

He smirks at her. "Get it yourself, Big-Foot."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Shut up!" She flings her book harmlessly at his temple. He bats it away easily. With a huff, she throws her legs off the couch and stands, glaring down at him.

A brow rises in challenge. He also gets to his feet, towering over her and affording himself a pleasant view down her shirt. "Make me, Flipper-feet." She colors instantly. He quite enjoys provoking her, but it's the reaction he does it for.

Just as he predicted, she launches herself at him, wrestling him to the ground, fistfuls of his muscle shirt in her tiny hands and fury in her face. He grins, barely resisting. He drags a hand down the length of her exposed thigh, stilling her in her awkward straddling position. Then, he easily flips them around, pinning her to the floorboards by sheer weight alone. "I win."

He chuckles at the flush in her face as she glowers rebelliously at him. "Filthy cheater," she accuses.

He could stay like this forever.

_**34; idea:**_

Makoto blinks rapidly, the hand reaching to her zip her duffel going slack. Yuri shifts nervously from foot to foot, bites her bottom lip, and, clearing her throat, figures she might as well get it over with. But, as always, Makoto beats her to the punch. "Yuri, you cut your hair."

It's a simple statement, a fact. Yuri's relieved. She was scared for a moment that there would be something else. Yuri self-consciously fingers the fresh, choppy ends. "Yes, I did."

Makoto smiles, reaches into her bag and pulls out her baseball glove. "Don't worry. It's different," she says, "but it looks good."

"Thanks, Makoto." Yuri tenses immediately after those words leave her lips.

A clap to the back nearly sends Makoto to the floor. She yelps, skips a step to catch her balance, and shoots her assailant a dirty look. Chiaki's mischievous smile dances on his lips. "Ready to go?" he asks. Makoto nods, bottom lip protruded in a surly expression. Chiaki accepts it amiably as payment for his trouble.

"Yuri, we're going to the baseball diamond. Care to join us?" queries Makoto, forcing green eyes to follow the lead.

Yuri yearns to accept, but it's like there is this invisible line she isn't meant to cross that tells her not to. "No, thanks."

Chiaki blinks at her, realization dawning. "Hayakawa, you cut your hair."

"Yeah," she whispers quickly, breath hot and anxious against the hand that she uses to fiddle with her uncharacteristically short cut.

"Looks good," Chiaki remarks.

"Thank you," murmurs Yuri, feeling breathless and ridiculously faint.

"See you tomorrow." Makoto and Chiaki give her a short wave and start off toward the baseball diamond. Yuri feels warmth fill her belly as she watches him go, trailing a step or two behind Makoto. Suddenly, his hand rises, long fingers reaching up, up—touching a wayward dark brown strand of hair before dropping, embarrassed, back into his pocket. Yuri's heart leaps to her throat, and she ducks her head, guilty for having caught such a private gesture. Her short coffee locks tickle her cheek, kissing the shame spread like fire there.

_**39; apple:**_

She took a bite from the apple. Juice went dribbling down her chin, and she grinned at them through her half-chewed bite. "Hey, so I was thinking—"

Kousuke turned away in disgust. "Finish your food before you try to say anything," he sighed, exasperated.

Chiaki wondered if he was crazy for wanting to lick the tell-tale apple trail from her mouth.

_**23; radical:**_

"DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT WITH ME?" he practically screams by the seventh do-over.

Her heart is racing, from all the adrenaline, she's sure. She almost wants to roll her eyes. Why won't he quit it? She has tried talking about her sister, the weather, her dirty socks, even her favorite baseball player, who Chiaki despises with a guttural passion. _Nothing_ deters him.

Doesn't he realize that she _doesn't? _That even if she gave herself the _chance_ to answer, it would be—

"Yes."

The bicycle squeaks to a stop, and he turns back to gape at her. She gapes back, fingers flying to her big mouth. His eyes spark to life, and it's so infectious that she doesn't want to see it go. "Do you mean it?" he asks hesitantly.

Did she? _No_, of course not. What she meant to say was—

"Yes."

He smiles—no, beams at her. "Cool," he musters anxiously, turning around and resuming pedaling. The bike squeals to life and she clamps down on her seat to keep from falling off. Makoto stares and stares and stares at his back, pupils dilated in utter shock. _What_ did she just say?

"Do you want to go to a movie on Friday night?" He glances over his shoulder. He looks so nervous she almost wants to kiss him. Wait, no, she didn't. In no universe, afterlife, time-space continuum, did she ever want to kiss the face of Mamiya Chiaki—right? "Just the two of us?" he clarifies, when her head stops spinning in circles.

"Yes."

He lightens up considerably, as if a huge weight as lifted off his shoulders. "Great. Can I pick you up at six?"

"Yes." She is surprised by how easily it leaves her lips.

"You're not kidding, right? You'll really go with me?" He nudges her with his shoulder, playfully, teasingly—but she can see the trepidation swimming in his eyes.

She nudges him back, lips curling up despite herself. "I already said yes, dummy. Yes, I'll go with you."

_**18; lotus:**_

It was several shots and stupid suggestions in, that Makoto ended up gurgling giddily through the alcohol a bright "Truth!" to her first Truth or Dare game—which, when sober, she actively criticized for being an utterly facile game.

Her gray-eyed friend pursed her lips in thought. "First kiss, Makoto," she drawled finally, finger on her lip as visual helpful hint.

"Easy, easy," bubbled Makoto, flapping her appendage like a gelatinous wand. "It was—" She stopped abruptly, brow furrowed in confusion. "Crap," she grumbled.

Her friends jumped at her reaction. "You haven't!"

Makoto's mood went as flat as an open can of soda. "I haven't," she confirmed morosely.

A friend patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. "It's okay. It'll happen."

Makoto took another shot out of spite, glowering gloomily at the baseball bat propped in the corner of her room. She had never hated Chiaki more for missing her lips the day he left.

_**27; dying:**_

The second chance he gets, he leaps. His throws technique to the four winds, reveling in the uncultivated hurtle that has his entire body jouncing around before—like an outdated fool, he smirks—he plunges into time. He realizes a second later that his utter disregard for technique may have been a grave mistake.

His brain implodes with pain. His eyes sear shut. He's cold, freezing. All is quiet, save for a droning hum in the background. He's terrified, terrified—what could this mean? Ginger fingers reach for his face, where liquid oozes from his forehead to his cheekbones. He forces himself to look at it. It's ghastly. The slime that comes away on his hands is green, reminding him dreadfully of the color of nuclear waste that fills the rivers in his time period. Fury and grief engulf him. He's failed. He's lost. He—he thinks something's gone terribly wrong because he sees Makoto dressed in only a gray t-shirt and panties standing in front of him.

She gapes at him, looking outlandishly domestic, barefoot, and older. A link of meat wrapped in a bread bun lays cradled loosely in her hand. "My relish, you idiot!" She viciously pinches him with the refrigerator door, where he lays tangled, to let him know just what she thinks of him returning to her in such a way that utterly ruins her dinner.

_**50; writer's choice:**__ sun_

It was sunset when he left her. It was sunrise when he kissed her.

_**37; insomnia:**_

She had never cried so much in her entire life as she had in the last few todays. It was damn tiring. She rolled across her bed, staring forlornly at her favorite photograph, fingers grazing the plastered smiles. Hiccups and hot, shortened breaths rose to the surface.

She guessed she must not be done crying yet.

* * *

**A/N:** I sincerely apologize for the abrupt, back-and-forth tense changes. I amassed these ten from various different writing frenzies from the past few months, so they may be a little disjointed. Thank you all for the support! Just twenty more "takes" to go. Comments and critique welcomed. Have a productive day!


	4. Take Forty

00:40:00

**Take Forty**

* * *

_**15; stop:**_

To this day, Makoto shudders whenever she hears the rattling of the train on the tracks and the pleasant warning chimes signaling danger.

_**7; gasoline:**_

The first time Chiaki makes an offhand comment about the size of Makoto's feet, she goes unnervingly still, and Kousuke shoots him a look as if he's thrown himself in front of a moving vehicle. "What?" he queries obliviously, surveying his friends' faces. Makoto suddenly glares up at him through her bangs, and propels the baseball straight into his face. "Ow!" he yelps, staggering a step back from the force of the blow. Kousuke releases a slow hiss of empathy. "What the hell, Makoto! What was that for?"

"Don't compare my feet to space shuttles!" she screams, cheeks colored in embarrassment. "Damn it, Chiaki! You're an ass!"

He fumbles wildly, looking to Kousuke for assistance, but Kousuke has already surrendered his friend to oblivion. "I never said that!" expostulates Chiaki, out of a dire need to preserve his life.

"I'm leaving," huffs Makoto, spitting him with another withering look. She grabs her mitt, stalks off the baseball diamond, stuffs it into her duffel bag and prepares her bike to leave.

Chiaki watches her with open-mouthed horror. "Wait! We need a catcher!" shouts Chiaki after her.

Makoto snaps her head back, eyes narrowed in trademark anger, which is rarely, if ever, directed at him. "Find someone with daintier feet to play catcher!" She presses on the pedals and spins away, like a leaf in autumn.

Chiaki gapes wordlessly at Kousuke. Kousuke only returns his look with an eventual shrug. "That's how she gets. She's really sensitive about her feet." Chiaki feels his face begin to swell and he curses Makoto for her amazing arm. "I wouldn't recommend doing it again," Kousuke suggests. As if he ever _would_. Chiaki has learned his lesson.

"How long is she going to be like that?" blubbers Chiaki pathetically.

Kousuke scoops the ball from the rusty-colored dust. "It takes her a couple of days to cool off. She'll be as good as new by Thursday."

"Thursday?" Chiaki repeats with a twinge of a whine in his voice. "What's she so upset for? It's not even a big deal!"

Kousuke shakes his head. "Girls are girls. Some girls worry about their hair; for Makoto, it's her feet. Just don't bring it up." He slaps his hapless buddy across the back and trucks himself off the field.

Chiaki jogs up after him. "Flowers, right?"

Kousuke's eyebrows skim upward. "What?"

"That's what you do when girls are upset. You give them flowers, right?"

Kousuke's confusion dissipates into amusement, which he displays with a laugh. "Sure—if you're dating," Kousuke replies. "You don't get Makoto flowers for talking about her feet."

"Then what?" presses Chiaki wearily. They both reach their bikes and Chiaki leans down to throw the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder.

Kousuke adjusts the strap on his. "Nothing. Just let her deal with it. She'll come around. She gets tired of being angry. See you tomorrow."

Chiaki frowns helplessly into the distance. He sighs, throwing his leg over the bicycle. He had really wanted to get her flowers.

_**38; raw:**_

"I have this awful tan line." Seeing no one, she pulls down the collar of her shirt, exposing pink, raw skin from her collarbone to the small swell where her breast begins. "Can you see it? Does it look bad?" inquires Makoto, trim eyebrows pinched in consternation.

Chiaki clears his throat and lowers his eyes. He can't help but think it's the most indecent thing to stare.

_**40; writer's choice:**__ mole_

Kousuke scratched his neck self-consciously. "I think it might be all the sun. I swear it wasn't there last month. It's not obvious, right?"

"Don't sweat it. You can't even tell," Chiaki answered.

"What about you, Makoto?"

"I don't have any moles," replied Makoto crisply.

"Yeah, you do," contested Chiaki with a skeptic's frown.

Makoto slowly shook her head. "No, I don't," she responded, giving him a look that clearly said he was being daft.

"Yeah, you do," he insisted, sounding exasperated. "You have a small one right," he gestured vaguely to chest area, "here." Makoto looked down at the corresponding area on her own person—at the valley between her breasts. He froze and dropped his arm, realizing his mistake. With careful, measured movements, she pulled the material out with her finger and peeked through her shirt. After a somewhat vigilant examination, she found that a small brown freckle marred her skin. Makoto blinked owlishly, as if she could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Kousuke gave Chiaki a suspicious look.

"How did you know that?" Makoto yelped.

_**4; paper: **_

His eyes rounded in amazement. "What's in this?" he exclaimed, wrapper crinkling as he smoothed it out to examine it.

Makoto raised a dubious eyebrow. Chiaki was just so _strange_ sometimes. "What do you mean? The candy?" she asked. He nodded enthusiastically, evidently pleased with the flavor that was currently throttling his tongue. "Sugar," answered Makoto. "Just tons and tons of sugar."

Chiaki's pupils dilated in approval. "Where can I get more of this stuff?"

Makoto reached into her pocket and pulled out another lemon drop, placing it in his hand. "I have more at home, but if you want some more now, we can stop by the candy shop before we all head home." She flung the duffel over her shoulder, wiping the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead. "Hey, Kousuke!" she called out, waving said boy over. "Chiaki wants to visit the candy shop later."

Kousuke made a face. "I didn't know you liked sweets, Chiaki."

Chiaki shrugged off the presumption. "I didn't know there were people that don't like this stuff. It's good."

Kousuke took the opportunity to toss Makoto her mitt, which she caught with an expert hand. She propped the duffel against her side, unzipped the bag and stuffed her baseball mitt in without further ceremony. "It's almost five. We should go now, before they close," she suggested. The other two pulled up their duffels and sat them on their shoulders. Makoto started off first; a beat, before the duo followed suit, half a step behind her.

Kousuke glanced over Makoto's short stature, and gave Chiaki a pointed look. "Hey, Chiaki."

"Hmm?" Chiaki managed, popping the other lemon drop onto his outstretched tongue.

"What kind of candy _do_ you have where you came from?"

Chiaki laughed. "It's not very good. That's all you need to know."

Kousuke and Makoto exchanged looks. "You know, if he's crazy about lemon drops, just wait until he gets a hold of some Swiss chocolate."

"Chiaki, have you had chocolate before?" Makoto queried, half-joke, half-incredulity.

His brow furrows contemplatively. "What's it like?"

"Well, it's—it's—" Makoto grasped for suitable detail. "It's this dark brown stuff, and it melts—it tastes like—" She made indecipherable hand gesticulations. "What the hell! I can't describe how chocolate tastes! Have you seriously not had it before?" she spluttered, efforts exhausted.

Her lackluster description of chocolate failed to excite him. "It sounds like crap, to be honest."

"It's not crap!" she blurted, aghast. "Chocolate is nothing like crap!"

Chiaki glanced at her. "If you're going to get so worked up over it, I guess I might as well try it."

Makoto's palm resounded against futilely against her forehead. "You're hopeless. Someone like you should just stick to lemon drops."

_**19; rental:**_

"Say, you don't like him, do you?" he asked her harmlessly one evening, as they sat in Kousuke's living room watching a baseball game on television.

"Who?" replied Makoto, a chocolate bar poised between her teeth.

"The guy who sits in the back of class. Ryouta," he clarified, sounding somewhat miffed.

Makoto shrugged, taking a bite out of her candy. "I hardly talk to him."

Chiaki shifted closer, leaning in. "Really? Because you were acting all friendly to him today."

Makoto's next blink revealed comprehension, and then, guilt. "Oh, whatever," she said quickly, "you make it sound like I'm not nice to people."

"You let him borrow your English notes," Chiaki pointed out, scrutinizing her.

Makoto glanced around Kousuke's living room, and determining Kousuke was nowhere in sight, she sighed as if in defeat. Chiaki felt a spike of something that resembled resentment flare up, licking at his insides. "Fine," she began, leaning conspiratorially toward him, cupping a hand around her mouth so that her voice only reached his ear. He leaned toward her, appropriately, and embraced the pleasant shiver that ran up his spine when her warm breath kissed his ear. "He let me borrow his notes for math last week. I was just returning the favor. Don't tell Kousuke, okay? Kousuke thinks I'm dumb enough as it is." Explanation given, Makoto leaned back and took another unabashed bite of the bar.

Chiaki nodded solemnly, pleased she had dispelled his paranoia about that nerd who sat in the back of the classroom. There was obviously nothing going on between them. It was simply an innocent notes-exchange. He wanted to keep it that way.

"Oh, Kousuke! Great, you got the popcorn!" exclaimed Makoto excitedly, abandoning the chocolate bar he had given her on top of her baseball magazine. Her fingers wriggled eagerly until Kousuke surrendered the fresh bag of popcorn with a long-suffering sigh. Makoto proceeded to dig in, scooting closer to Chiaki in order to give Kousuke room on her other side.

Chiaki touched her lightly on the shoulder to get her attention, and once he did, he whispered slowly into her ear: "Come to me for math notes next time. I'll help you."

Makoto nodded, disarmed by the rich timber of his voice. Clearing her throat, she delicately returned to watching the television screen. Chiaki reclined against the sofa, a satisfied half-smirk heavy with implications on his face. Kousuke watched the two of them suspiciously. Finally, he cleared his throat, and demanded that Makoto share the popcorn.

_**22, turquoise:**_

Chiaki stared at the odd bulge beneath her shirt. She stared perkily back at him. His eyes darted uneasily from side to side, before finally resting on her…shirt. "Something's wrong with you," he coughed uncomfortably.

"It's for you, moron." Makoto stuck a hand into her shirt, prompting Chiaki's eyes to go wide in astonishment. She pulled out a small tube of cardboard. "I had to sneak it out of the museum." She handed it over to him. He fumbled with it shiftily, highly aware of the body heat still emanating from the parcel.

Finally, at her expectant, reproachful look, he popped open the top and peered inside. "What is it?" he asked, squinting into the dark.

"It's a copy of the painting," she smiled apologetically, "since I couldn't get you the original."

_**35; abyss:**_

That night, she sobbed so hard she was afraid she would forget how to breathe. She would never be able to run to where he was. He would be waiting for her forever.

_**12; mist: **_

She supposes she loves Kousuke enough to be with him, but, when she wakes, eyes misty, she realizes she doesn't love him enough to dream about him.

_**26; here:**_

Chiaki sits at the edge of an empty riverbed, one that had run clear and full mere centuries ago. He trails a hand along the yellow, parched grass, and remembers sitting in the exact same spot a year ago, when it was lush, warm, and in a time where he didn't belong. He stares out into the rocky husk of the old river until the image is burned dismally into his retinas. He closes his eyes, and tries to draw over the image with his memories—but they're only shells and glimpses of what they used to be.

He drops his head in defeat. "I'll be waiting," he murmurs nostalgically.

_I'll come running._

His brow furrows at the foolishness of it. Who would ever come running here, to this desolate wasteland? He had wasted his time, and, worse, hers.

Sometimes, he catches slippery half-memories from times that she must have erased before her last leap. As a time-traveler, he's not immune to rewrites, but he's certainly more able to grasp at edited memories than others. A painful smile jerks across his mouth as he remembers how many times he asked her out, even yelling at one point because he was so desperate. He remembers singing a song dozens of times, and the gleeful look in her eyes every time he would start in his ridiculous off-tune voice. He remembers these things because they're all he has. He thinks it might be enough, but it's not.

Suddenly, he's thrown forward, lurching dangerously fast and tumbling toward the rocks. The wrenching sensation almost reminds him of time-leaping, but he hasn't—_doesn't_—have any to leap _with_, so—

He grabs a hold of the dead grass before he hits the rocks, curtailing his abrupt journey to jagged edges and thirsty dirt. He thinks he might have pulled something, because his arm feels about ready to give, as if he's suddenly gotten two times heavier. His eyes blink open blearily and he tries to heave himself to his feet, but he's unable to. With a start, he realizes he's pinned to the slope, with arms wrapped around his neck, and a lithe runner's body collapsed on top of him.

All the air seems to leave his lungs in one fell swoop. It _can't_ be. He's dreaming again. Those vivid dreams he has—he's hallucinating, of course, because it _can't be her._

"I came running," she breathes into his ear. He commands his arm to move, to touch her, make sure she's real, or at least to make this dream last because it's never been so good to him before. His fingers graze her cheek, and those bright, brown orbs shine, lively and real, at him.

"Makoto?"

She grins, still breathless from the chase. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

* * *

**A/N: **It really saddens me to not see more fanfic for this movie. But, then, my fixation with it may not be so healthy, either. I'm not too fond of this chapter, but only because it wasn't as fun to write as the last chapter (yes, it _is_ done, and it actually has a kind-of theme; crazy, right?). I will probably post the last installment by the end of the weekend. I'm eager to get working on a multi-chaptered Tokikake fic (on my profile, for more info) that I've had to postpone because of exams. Just a warning, though. My multi-chaptered projects are the most sluggish things on the face of this planet. Naturally, vignettes are my security blanket. This might be redundant of me to ask, but is anyone confused by the title of my chapters? Anyone understand the concept behind it? I'll stop yakking your ear off now. Comments and critique welcomed. Thank you for reading.


	5. Take Fifty

00:50:00

**Take Fifty**

* * *

_**46; medication:**_

She was so stupid for not jumping off her bike right away when she found herself hurtling towards the black and yellow gates. She wondered if she hadn't been so stupid, if he would have stayed.

_**28; lullaby:**_

Some days, she feels utterly run-down. Some days, she gets off from a long day at work, rides the packed subway, and comes home to an empty apartment. Some days, she doesn't even bother to make dinner, only crumples onto the mussed bedspread and sleeps until the exhaustion has run out. On those days, she dreams of him. On the days after, she smiles and resumes life with a lissome bounce to her step, until the next time the weariness overcomes her.

_**45; paranoid:**_

The floor lurches beneath her. Makoto shrieks as if her life is ending and falls to her knees, the railing clamped betwixt her vise-like digits.

"Whoa, that was unusual," pipes Chiaki. "Does this always happen in your era?" She peels open an eye. It's dark, but there's still an emergency bulb that shines dimly on the two of them. She watches him bend forward a little to examine the control board of the elevator. His features twist in befuddlement. "How do you call for assistance?"

Makoto carefully gets to her feet, eyeing the whole contraption warily, as if it will drop them to their deaths at any given second. "Oh, here it is." He presses down on an unused red button, and instantly an irritating alarm signals their wholly undesirable situation.

"We could have just _called_ for help, Chiaki."

He shrugs. "Just speeding things along."

She shoots him a narrow-eyed pout. "Going to visit Kousuke was your idea."

Chiaki laughs good-naturedly. "Yeah, it was," he concedes. "This is still interesting, in my opinion. It's not every day you get to get stuck in an elevator."

Makoto's foot taps against the grimy floor impatiently. His calm and unaffected manner is at odds with her need to panic and lash out. It's all Kousuke's fault. Why does the idiot have to work on the eighteenth floor?

Chiaki leans easily against the elevator wall, watching her slow-boil in aggravation. After a long moment of what Chiaki guesses must be mental cursing, Makoto lets the mess of a glare unwind from her features and digs a hand into her bag. She produces her phone, flips it open, and presses the number 8 on the speed dial pad. A small grimace appears on his lips. He wonders which number he is; he decides it should at least be 7.

"Hello? Kousuke, I'm stuck in an elevator with Chiaki." _And this is really all your stupid fault_ remains unsaid, but blatant from her tone and word choice. "You can hear the alarm? Yes," she rubs her temple in distress, and Chiaki wonders if it's a habit she's picked up from Kousuke, "Chiaki pushed it." A pause. "Oh, really? That's great, then. We'll see you as soon as this thing gets running. Okay. Bye."

She turns to him, a trite merrier. "Kousuke said they're sending someone on their way. We should be out in no time!" Chiaki nods, but says nothing. She doesn't quite like the intensity of the stare he's giving her. "Are you feeling okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine," he replies, so she relaxes. "I was just thinking; you look nice today." Her stunt with relaxation grinds to a halt.

Her oak-colored eyes snap to him. "Don't get any funny ideas!" she warns apprehensively, wheedling inconspicuously into the farthest elevator corner, which, she bedamns, is not very far at all.

A quick and sly smile quirks his face. "What ideas?" His voice is mellow and light, and he closes the dismal distance between them in two long strides.

Makoto's pupils dilate and her mouth stretches and thins into a frown of displeasure; of discomfiture, once he's close enough to breathe on. She has to force herself to _think_ and _not sound like a moron. _"Those ideas," she ducks her head and lets the declaration cede into a whisper, "that you're thinking right now."

Chiaki chuckles because he feels rather victorious. "What do you think I'm thinking right now?"

Makoto's expression strains to be one of pert discontent. "I'm thinking," she announces, pressing a hand against his chest in a mild attempt to push him back some distance (but she feels the heat from his skin through the shirt and immediately drops her hand away as if it's been singed), "you're _thinking—_nevermind." His fingers find and curl over hers. She gasps, as if it's never occurred to her that he's genuinely serious. _Right here? Right now?_ "Chiaki, we don't have time for this—the elevator people will be here any minute!" Her squeak, it appears, does nothing to dissuade him.

He grins into the corner of her parted mouth. "We have all the time in the world."

Her eyelids flutter closed instinctively.

_**5; chemical: **_

For some reason, it doesn't surprise her that the day she finds ladybug crap on her time tattoo is the day he returns to her.

_**6; birthmark:**_

Her nails tear bloody crescents into his skin. Her knuckles have gone bone-white, and her eyes burn through him like chemicals through steel. For a moment, the murky, desperate haze of in her eyes clears, giving him an uninhibited look into dizzying irruptions of pain. Her spindly fingers clamp down impossibly tighter, teeth clenched and enamel squealing in protest.

"I," she begins with ragged difficulty, clammy sweat plastering her bangs to her sallow face, "hate you."

The smile gutters pathetically on his lips until it drops into a painful grimace. "Makoto." He gives the hand he can no longer feel a reassuring squeeze. "I'm right here." A terrible scream rips out of her. He can feel her body quivering and tense, and her eyes leave his to seek refuge in the emotionless ceiling. With his other hand, he gently tilts her head toward him. "Makoto, look at me. I'm here."

She glares at him, every feature on her face contorted in pain. He brushes the stray bangs out of her eyes, and feels assuaged somewhat that she has enough strength to lean into his touch. "You're almost through, Makoto," exclaims the nurse, voice ripe with mild encouragement. "You're doing great. Just a little more."

Chiaki's eyes brighten at the news. "See, it's almost over. I'll get you that key-lime pie you wanted in no time."

Makoto winces, and a tear escapes from her lashes. "I hate you so much," she hisses. "_With fudge, okay_?"

He nods, glad he hasn't lost her completely to the monstrosity of excruciating pain. He lifts his bruised right hand, which she still possesses in her vise-like grip, and kisses her bloodless knuckles. "Of course. With fudge." The doctor, Chiaki swears, is grinning through the mask.

Several screams and breathless hiccups later, the attending obstetrician announces, "Congratulations, it's a healthy baby girl."

_**47; special:**_

He gets down to one knee. She stares—no, _gapes_—at him, jaw going practically unhinged. She knows this stance: outdated, notorious, horrifically _sick_, romantic—

It's the proposal pose.

She can't even summon the brainpower to think. The room doesn't go spinning on her. Her legs don't suddenly feel like jelly. Her mouth doesn't even go dry. She just gapes at him.

"Makoto," he musters, his cheeks and nose dusted a very heated pink, "will you marry me?"

His half-stammer, half-request has her synapses connecting a trifle better. She instinctively glances down at the exposed skin on his wrist. "You still have an extra leap, you know," she blurts without thinking. She immediately regrets the words. He looks as if she's just dug the heel of her shoe into his face.

He fidgets fretfully with the little diamond affair seated on the palm of his hand. "Sorry, I know this is a little unexpected. I shouldn't have surprised you; you freak out whenever I do something weird."

"Chiaki—"

He shakes his head, coping with disappointment. "It's alright. I should give you some time to think about it. Just tell me on your own terms. I can wait." He begins to tuck it back into his coat pocket, when she clasps the ring box with both her hands.

"What do you think you're doing?" she stumbles, turning fire-engine-red. She really, _really_ can't bring herself to look him in the face. She figures he's probably got this monstrously bright and cheesy grin plastered all over. She has to take a deep, controlled breath before she can say anything. "You're not even going to put it on? How stupid," she mutters, with no bite.

The next moment she's losing her balance. She clamps tight to the ring and fists her other hand into his coat, and feels herself supported precariously by the railing behind her. She glimpses twinkling, black-satin water out of the corner of her eye, and smacks him with the ring box half-heartedly. "I could have dropped this in the river, you idiot!" But he's nestled his head in the curve of her neck, and his arms are wrapped around her in a startlingly tender and pleasant way, so she forgives him a little.

"I love you," he murmurs into her skin. "Will do me the honor of marrying me?"

"Yes." She marvels at the seriousness of her response. "I will."

He kisses her, then. She squeaks out a protest of bewilderment. He chuckles. "Sorry about that. I know you hate surprises." He slips the ring on her finger.

_**11; effulgent:  
**_

He loves the sigh she makes when she wakes but before she's lucid. He loves the way her hand wanders across the pillow, searching sluggishly to silence the alarm clock. He loves that these habits of hers haven't changed, so that every morning, when she wakes up, he's the first to hear her sleepy sigh and feel her fingertips graze his shoulder.

_**10; writer's choice:**_ _fury_

"You're angry," he observed mildly as he stared her down from across the countertop.

She glared at him from where she was sitting. "Damn right, I'm angry." She jerked her molten gaze back to the television, as if he were no longer worth looking at.

"Makoto," he began, testing his apology tentatively. "I—" His next words were smothered by the television's sudden boost in volume. Chiaki practically growled his mental aggravation. She was so predictable. He strolled over to her seat, sat down next to her, and wrestled the remote gently out of her clench. Makoto dutifully ignored his existence, thoroughly enraptured by the fascinatingly monotonous weather forecaster. "Makoto," asserted Chiaki, "don't be like this. Let's talk it out." Makoto swung him a cold, dirty look, before shooting up out of her seat and leaving the room.

As the door slammed behind her, Chiaki slumped forward in the couch cushion, hands fisting in his hair. He swallowed a frustrated groan. He hated, absolutely _hated_, getting the silent treatment from her. _Her_ life was way too short to be wasting on petty fights like these. He realized long ago he had at least twenty years of loneliness ahead of him after the day he would irretrievably lose her to Death's bitter claws. She once said she understood, but he felt like she didn't, not really. If she really did, she wouldn't hold grudges, wouldn't play these silly games with him.

The door opened behind him, and he jolted up, feeling a swell of delight mixed with relief. Glancing hopefully over his shoulder, he only caught Makoto retreating from the bedroom to the bathroom with a bundle of clothes under her arm and a surly expression on her face. Of course, she would. She bathed when she was angry. She really was an open book.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. With a jaunty quirk of his lips, Chiaki stood up and approached the bathroom door, shedding his jacket and shirt along the way. He heard the water running, and caught the bright notes of Makoto's humming through the door. Perfect.

"Makoto, may I come in?"

The humming abruptly stopped.

_**24; androgyny: **_

He loved to see her in sleeveless tops. She rarely wore them, finding them too impractical for most days and preferring instead the safety and familiarity of ratty, old t-shirts. But today, she seemed to be in a humoring mood, sporting a red tank top that matched his. She padded barefoot across the floor boards, her slender legs marred by nothing save for a pair of gratuitously short shorts. The lazy smile on her lips appeared as naturally as her next maneuver did. He smiled as she plopped into his waiting lap, curling her tiny body into his. He dropped a kiss onto the back of her neck as she absentmindedly traced circles on the inside of his wrist. The pad of his thumb stroked the supple skin of her bare arm.

"I like it when you go sleeveless," he murmured.

"I know you do," she replied briskly, with a tiny, little smirk.

There was something inexplicably comforting about them sharing the "00" marks on their skin.

_**48; saturnine:**_

Her biggest regret was not giving him a happy ending.

* * *

**A/N:** And done. This may be the first multi-installment project that I have ever finished. I deeply appreciate all of you taking the time to read this and sticking with me to its completion. I won't lie; some of the prompts were so difficult to come up with something for that I wanted to yank chunks of hair out, but all in all, it was worth it. What did you think of the the project as a whole? Did you see any shifts from the first batch to the last? Did it leave a bitter, sweet, or bittersweet impression? Favorite prompts? Let me know! Comments and critique welcomed. Thank you for reading.


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